Paris, tu me manques

I’ve just come back from the most amazing weekend in Paris having been invited for an old friend’s wedding. I love Paris for many reasons, i’ve always said it was like a drug – I go, I come back and i’m left missing it terribly. Lately i’ve needed some “me” time. Sometimes I think as a mum it’s very easy to lose a massive piece of who you are, your chat becomes baby talk and when you do meet up with other people (usually other mums as all your mates are in work) you end up talking about baby habits / shits / vom / lack of sleep anyway. This weekend was so far removed from my real life and just what the doctor ordered…

After dropping the baby off at the mother in laws I hot-footed it to Kings Cross to take the train, what I love most about the Eurostar is that people never really know whether to speak in French or English and you end up having a bit of a frenglish conversation. For example the guy next to me who clearly wanted to chat whilst I wanted to catch up on some Zzzz’s was insistent in french – “would you like anything from the shop?” , “can I use that bag as a bin?”, “can I put the armrest down?”… – “non merci, oui bien sur, oui pas de probleme”… (all whilst thinking –  “putain ta-gueule et laisse moi dormir dickhead”). What makes me laugh is 10 minutes before pulling into Paris, his mobile rings and he has a fully blown conversation in English – douche. Now i know i’m half french but I definitely look English…. which reminds me I must book an appointment to get my muzzy waxed like….

Arrived in Paris and made my way to the metro, where upon smelling that smell, listening to the accordion players and eyeing up a packet of fritelles in the vending machine, I was transported back to when I lived there (the only difference being this time I paid for a metro ticket rather than bunking on). Men still haven’t learned to close their legs when they sit next to you, people still don’t move up to let you sit down and it’s still perfectly acceptable for men to eye-fuck you whilst they sit with their birds.

I was staying with a friend (who has told me I’m not allowed to put his *name on my blog) who was still working when I arrived at his place but I was happy as a pig in shit to simply sit at an overpriced, customer service-lacking french brasserie enjoying a €4.50 espresso and approximately 10 cigs in a row… when in Paris!

That night started with drinks at Canal St Martin (the place to go for a spliff on the waterside apparently), dinner and then more drinks in Bastille. Joined by our other friend, Clem who was getting married in the morn, it was amazing to catch up. The night was actually pretty tame, after a crawl on Rue de Lappe, we ended up in a very cool club – Badaboum ( managed to gatecrash a birthday party in the VIP area which was like someone’s living room, before deciding to leave when the DJ refused to play Fresh Prince of Bel Air (request off my *nameless friend). Quite a calm night all round, that was until we got the cab home, his card machine wasn’t working, we were €6 short of the fare and the driver went skitzo on my *nameless friend, ripping his trouser pockets to try and take his phone/wallet for repayment. I still maintain that this was our “quiet night”.

Saturday the sun was out and it was back to Bastille for the loveliest french ceremony i’ve been to for two of the loveliest frenchies I know. After a little champers and a Ricard and lemo (and some raised eyebrows from the french barman when ordering) it was then on to the park with nameless’s kids to sooth my aching ovaries caused by missing my own baby. After a petit power nap, it was time to go back out. A few cocktails later and it was set that we were going to a club called the Memphis. Now usually when people ask me for recommendations of where to go in Paris, this would be somewhere I would recommend if you:

  • are absolutely wasted and won’t remember where you end up anyway
  • trying to pretend you are still 20 and cool
  • don’t mind that at 3am they let 2000 people into the smallest of spaces and it becomes a sweat pit that smells like camembert and ashtrays combined
  • you’re open to delayed breathing problems from the indoor smoking area

The club was HEAVY, after dancing away to the french classics of “It’s raining men” and “Daddy Cool” I eventually gave in, admitted my age and wanted to leave. In addition to the fact my nameless friend had disappeared and I was also getting a bit blinded by the UV lights reflecting off the multiple white jeans (on men) and the white bras on show and sick of the fucking “racailles” whispering “tu-es jolie”. I was shuffled into a cab (secretly shitting myself in case his destination was Bois de Vincennes where I was going to meet his taxi driver mates and never be seen again) however he politely dropped me at nameless’s flat where I attempted to pass out before texting nameless to say if he woke me up I would fucking kill him. 3 hours later, the doorbell was ringing incessantly and nameless came in bouncing off the walls and wanting to chat about how great the night was, he got ignored, swore at and I eventually caught up on about 4 hours sleep. Woke up fresh as dog shit before we went to a family birthday party where his tornado of a son attempted to batter me whilst calling me “poo poo girl” – what everyone wants on a hangover n’est pas?!

An hour and a Starbucks later, I was snoring away on the Eurostar dreaming of what life could have been in Paris…


A la prochaine…


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